


I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy

by wildestranger



Series: Hunger Hurts [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brexit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac comes home to find a Jehan-shaped lump on his sofa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToraK (torakowalski)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my dearest Torakowalski! I hope this story had all the crying and hugging that you need.
> 
> It is, also, a story about the EU referendum in the UK, and the experience of European migrants in the UK. It is a second part of my Hunger Hurts series (which will be finished, I promise), but taking place after the end of that story line. You may assume that Enjolras and Grantaire have sorted themselves out and are together by this point. You might also assume that Eponine and Combeferre are in the process of sorting themselves out. I hope to have more of that posted soon.
> 
> You don't need to have read that fic to make sense of this, but it helps.

Canary Wharf can be beautiful on a day like this: faint sunshine after hours of rain, the highrisers still wet and sparkling with it. Courfeyrac knows that it is, objectively, a terrible place to live – full of offices, chain bars, and outrageous prices – but there is something futuristic about the architecture that he likes.

Also, he works in Canary Wharf and this way he can walk to work. Which in London is a cause of great envy, and makes his choice to live there perfectly understandable to all who enquire. He can even have a bit of a lie in, most days.

Courfeyrac owns a two-bed flat on the 5th floor of one of the older buildings, low enough that he can wave at the commuters on the DLR when he feels like it. He’d bought it right after university; a sudden inheritance from a dead great-aunt and a job at an international law firm conspiring to make a mortgage a better choice than renting. It’s a good investment, his father had said. Enough space to start a family, even.

That was ten years ago, and Courfeyrac has not acquired a family (although the value of the flat has gone up, so his father was right). What he does have is Jehan, who sleeps in his spare bedroom and spends most of his days working on Courfeyrac’s sofa: writing articles on medieval poetry, producing freelance translations in French and Italian, and planning classes for any of the four London universities where he teaches. Jehan has lived with Courfeyrac since he came back from a PhD in Bologna. It makes sense: Courfeyrac has the space, and Jehan, an itinerant academic, could not afford to rent on his own. And Courfeyrac likes having someone there, likes coming home to a friend after work. Most of their friends live in North London, and refuse to come down except for special occasions. Too many posh twats, says Eponine. Courfeyrac is reasonably sure he is not included in that.

That he is in love with Jehan, has been since university, doesn’t make it worse.

* * *

The flat is quiet when he comes in, which is unusual. Jehan tends to like music when he works, something medieval by preference, but anything up to 1800 will do. There is a lot of BBC Radio 3 in their lives. Yet despite the uncharacteristic silence, Jehan is home. Courfeyrac can see the back of his head, peeking out behind the sofa: he is sitting upright, facing the windows. Not reading or writing, then. He has not moved since Courfeyrac came in.

It’s also cold in the flat, he realises. Courfeyrac has told Jehan that he can put the heating on, yes even in summer, English weather being what it is, because he works from home and should be comfortable, but Jehan tends to not take him up on it. That would be taking advantage, and their situation is precarious enough that Courfeyrac doesn’t want to push.

Courfeyrac puts his messenger bag in its corner by the door, and steps into the living room.

“Hello! Did you see the thing about the flotilla?”

He walks around the sofa in time to catch Jehan’s smile; a grimace, rather, but intended to convey humour.

“Yeah. It was pretty ridiculous.”

One of the campaigners for Vote Leave had sailed a flotilla down the Thames. He’d come face to face with Bob Geldof, and there had been a lot of shouting and loudspeakers and throwing water at each other: British politics at its most puerile. Courfeyrac’s mobile is full of scathing commentary from Enjolras, interspersed with suggestions from Grantaire on how to sink both ships.

It had been pretty funny, in an _ohgodohgodwhatishappening_ sort of way. But Jehan doesn’t look amused. He still hasn’t looked at Courfeyrac, is sitting straight and staring out of the window. He is holding a cushion in his lap, and his eyes a little red.

The thing is, Courfeyrac is a tactile guy. He is known for his hugging ways – not even Eponine escapes her at least two yearly hugs, and she hates hugging more than she hates people. Being a tactile guy means that Courfeyrac can get away with a lot more cuddling than most people. It means that he can, for example, sit down next to Jehan, throw an arm around his shoulder, and give his cheek a boisterous kiss. Courfeyrac is good at boisterousness.

“Hey, darling,” he says, “what’s going on? Has something happened?”

He’s fairly sure that someone would have told him if anything serious had happened, but Jehan is also very private about things. Then again, he wouldn’t be seeing this if that were the case here. Jehan grimaces again, in annoyance this time. Courfeyrac still has his arm around him; he strokes down one thumb, catches it on Jehan’s sleeve.

“They hate us so much, don’t they.” Jehan’s voice is quiet. 

It’s not a question. This is a conversation they’ve had many times, ever since the possibility of an EU referendum was first raised. They are a group of European immigrants, or the children of immigrants – while most of them are British citizens, many have dual nationality, and they all have ties to France. If Britain leaves the EU, it will have consequences for all them. Jehan, however, is the only one who is solely French – his parents brought him to the UK when he was six, and he has lived most of his life here.

They are all angry about the referendum, about the public discourse that demonises migrants one and all, about the rhetoric of British exceptionalism that comes with it. Enjolras has taken to swearing at the TV whenever he sees any politician (fuck him in his fucking ear is a current favourite). Jehan doesn’t swear. He gets quietly angry and writes erudite arguments for the Les Amis website, highlights the xenophobia and irrationality of the debate.

He is angry now, Courfeyrac notes the tight hands, the hardening of his mouth. But Jehan has also been crying, or at least close to it, and he looks exhausted. And there’s nothing Courfeyrac can do about that.

Then Jehan drags out a shaky breath, which exerts an equal pull on Courfeyrac; he draws Jehan into his arms, pulls him close, and tries to keep him from shaking. Jehan crumbles a little at that; he tries to pull up and then collapses again, and Courfeyrac presses a kiss against his neck, whispers “Oh my dear” into his hair, and strokes his hair.

“It’s not like it’s a surprise,” he hears. “It’s not like I didn’t know, I don’t know why it’s getting to me now. I saw a thing about some woman being shouted at and being told to go home, and I know I’m lucky I don’t get that, that I pass for British most days, but it’s not like I didn’t know people thought that. Even the ones who want to remain in the EU, they still look down on us.”

He’s not wrong, and there’s nothing Courfeyrac can say in response. He suddenly wishes that Grantaire were there, with his bitterness and cheerful hatred for all the world. Jehan lets out a small sigh, then pulls back. He remains loosely circled by Courfeyrac’s arms, but turns aside, towards the window. 

“It just occurred to me today that I have never met a British person who would have thought of foreigners as their equal. Even the nice ones – they’re brought up in a society built on the British Empire, British centrality in the world. And I’m so tired of it.”

When he turns to face Courfeyrac his eyes are no longer red.

“So much of the talk, even on the Remain camp, is about how to best get rid of us, how to limit migration, how to make sure that migrants aren’t treated the same, that they’ll know they are second-class citizens.”

Courfeyrac squeezes his hand. “If only they’d all drowned in the Thames.” 

“If only they’d all died in a fire.”

He can’t help his burst of laughter; it invites a brief relaxing on Jehan’s face.

“You sound like Enjolras. Have you been getting texts as well?”

Jehan squeezes his hand in turn, and leans sideways against the sofa.

“Worse. I got a phone call, in angry French – you know how he gets all _aquitain_ when he’s cranky? – specifying all the things that had annoyed him today. I don’t know why Enjolras keeps thinking that calling people on the phone is a thing one should do. Has nobody told him? Isn’t this Combeferre’s job? Or Grantaire’s, now?”

“I suspect Combeferre is the one who suggested it originally. Just to make the thing with Grantaire funnier. And Grantaire finds it endearing, now.”

Jehan makes a face at that. It’s not that they haven’t all been rooting for Enjolras and Grantaire, but there is a lot of soppiness going on right now. Even Courfeyrac – a self-acknowledged sentimental fool – is starting to find them trying.

“Well, today it was actually kind of cheering. Gave me a reason to take a break. He told me about the flotilla, and then I turned the TV on, and, well.” Jehan makes a vague twisting motion with his hand.

Courfeyrac takes his point. “And then there was a lot of bollocks about how we’re better off with less immigration, with better controls on immigration, British jobs for British people, blah blah blah I’m not racist I’m just better than a German person.”

“Quite so, quite so. All those Germans who keep forgetting who won WW2, and more importantly, football in 1966.”

“Didn’t Germany win last time, though?”

“Possibly. I try not to pay attention when people sport.”

There is another weary sigh, but Jehan looks steadier. Courfeyrac gives his hands another squeeze – it occurs to him that they’ve been holding hands for a while now – and thinks about suggesting a drink. A cup of tea might be too British for the moment, but perhaps a glass of French wine? Enjolras brought some of his grandmother’s bottles the last time they had a party, and there has been too many for even Les Amis to consume. In retrospect this was probably deliberate on Enjolras’s part – Courfeyrac knows he feels guilty about the ever-growing and never-finishing stack in their wine cupboard.

He’s about to stand up, but then Jehan speaks.

“I’m going to leave. If it goes…if it goes badly.”

And Courfeyrac stops. His heart feels like it’s stopped beating, although Joly has promised that it doesn’t actually happen like that.  
He’s glad he didn’t have the time to bring any drinks. He would have dropped the glass.

“They will make it more difficult to live here, even if they’re now saying that everybody who is already here gets to stay. But I wouldn’t trust them not to start charging for the NHS, or require extra visas, or make unemployment more difficult, or a million other things.”

This is all true, so Courfeyrac nods. It would be smart to leave.

“And my situation is difficult enough as it is. This won’t make me any more employable.”

Jehan smiles, then; determined rather than happy, but better than it has been.

“Not immediately, of course. It will take a couple of years to come into effect. But I’ll need to start planning. As soon as we know.”

“OK,” Courfeyrac says. He must look like he’s in shock, because Jehan scoots over to hug him. The thing with being a tactile person is that it also gives other people the excuse to touch you, knowing that it will be welcome. 

And Jehan has had time to get used to this idea. “It will be fine,” he says quietly into Courfeyrac’s ear. But it won’t be, not if Jehan is leaving, not if…fuck, now he’s crying. Courfeyrac is leaking wetly against Jehan’s ear, who must notice; since he pulls Courfeyrac loser and strokes a hand down his back.

And he can’t help it, can’t stop himself like he usually would; he slides his mouth over Jehan’s face, on the corner of his mouth, the skin beneath his hair. It’s not right, he knows – Jehan tolerates his affection because they are friends and Jehan does love him, and they are the kind of men who get called eurotrash for kissing each others’ cheeks. But Courfeyrac keeps himself in check because Jehan knows – Courfeyrac is not subtle, and apparently his eyes start to shine sometimes when he looks at Jehan – but Jehan doesn’t want him, and that’s that.

Now, Jehan gives him a final squeeze, a peck on the cheek, and moves away. He gets up and goes to the kitchen.

Courfeyrac breathes, long deep breaths that force his heartbeat to calm, counted breaths that keep his mind focused. He tells himself that this is not the end of the world.

Jehan is not wrong; it would be better to go. And although the decision might be sudden, there will be time to plan.

He can sell his flat, that will give him – them – enough to live on for some time. He works in international law, which means that while he can’t work as a barrister outside the UK, he has useful knowledge and skills that can be applied for other things, consultancy and such. He has a French grandparent, he can get a French passport.

Courfeyrac takes another breath; it’s easier now. It’s likely that they won’t be the only ones to leave. Enjolras will unquestionably move (he already has his French passport, being both more keen and less lazy than Courfeyrac), and Grantaire with him. Eponine might go back to Scotland, depending on whether their secession goes ahead, but France is also a good option for her. And Combeferre will follow them, and probably Feuilly, whose stay as a French Algerian would be particularly uncomfortable. Most of them would go, probably – the only one who has firm family ties in the UK is Marius, but he will go wherever Cosette does, and Cosette is a tiny ball of rage when it comes to the referendum.

There, sorted. It will all be fine. His heart can stop breaking any moment now.

He stands up, shakes his head, and straightens his shoulders. He finds Jehan in the kitchen, staring fixedly at the wine cupboard.

They do, indeed, have a huge amount of French wine. It somehow feels so satisfyingly Eurocentric to buy. And then there are Enjolras’s bottles.

Courfeyrac comes to a stand next to Jehan: shoulder to shoulder, but without touching.

“Shall we choose a bottle and think about moving to wherever it was made? I liked Languedoc when we went there with the French society. You could try teaching me Provençal. And we could try and persuade Enjolras into another vat of grapes, that was fun.”  
Jehan turns around to face him, and Courfeyrac, helpless to do otherwise, follows in turn. Jehan is frowning, his body cautiously still.

“We?”

“Yes?”

Jehan looks at him, puzzled.

“You would come with me?”

“Yes? Of course I would. I expect everyone would, to be honest, but yes, of course.”

“But what would you do? You have a job here, you have a flat, and you have a family you don’t hate.” 

Jehan keeps talking about these things as if they are important, and now Courfeyrac is confused.

“I’d find something. I can sell the flat, live on that for a bit. I can make a life for myself, wherever you want to go.”

“Wherever I want to go? Courfeyrac, you can’t…”

“Do you think I want to live in a country where you’re not welcome?”

Jehan blinks at that, because yes, he should know that Courfeyrac is not that much of a selfish dick, that he does takes his friendships seriously. That despite his job in the city and his posh flat, he is still a Friend of the Revolution.

“No, but…”

“Do you think I want to live in a country that doesn’t have you in it? Jehan, you know that I…look, if you’d rather go on your own, have an adventure, I’ll understand, but I think you’ll find it hard to persuade Enjolras that we shouldn’t all move to France together, and we don’t have to share a flat if you’d rather not, I’m sure you’ll find a job more easily there, and…”

And Jehan is grabbing is shirt and kissing him.  
Courfeyrac loses his mind for a bit there. His hands are fluttering on Jehan’s arms, over his back, not sure what they’re allowed to do but quite keen to do _something_ now that this is happening. His eyes are closed, and he knows he must look ridiculous because Jehan is laughing at him, laughing against his mouth because they are _kissing._

It is possible Courfeyrac is feeling a little melodramatic. He’s laughing a little himself. He doesn’t know why this is happening.

Then Jehan is pulling back, and Courfeyrac lets him, even though every part of his soul is telling him to linger. He stays close, though. Within kissing distance.

“Courfeyrac, you…”

Jehan is looking at him like he doesn’t understand, or like he’s starting to understand. Courfeyrac tugs on his hair, and smiles at him.

“What, you didn’t know I love you? I’ve been told I have been embarrassingly obvious.”

Jehan shakes his head at him, looking so fond that Courfeyrac dares to try a kiss himself. He aims it at Jehan’s lower lip – he has had many thoughts about it – but even with the intention of moving, he ends up staying there. There’s the corner of Jehan’s mouth, so tantalisingly near. There’s the heat of the inner lip, where he intends to drown himself at the nearest opportunity.

But again, Jehan pulls back. He keeps his hands on Courfeyrac’s shirt, though, every finger spreading warmth.

“I knew you…liked me. But I didn’t think you were serious about it. You like a lot of people.”

This is true, but there are a lot of people and then there’s Jehan. 

Courfeyrac leans in with his most rakish smile.

“Let me show you how serious I am.”

This is the kiss he has been thinking about, the kiss his mind keeps wondering toward; his hands on Jehan’s face, keeping him close and holding him open; touching Jehan with all his body, legs entwined and chests pressed together; the smell of Jehan’s hair, the taste of his skin so near. Jehan’s eyes on him, open and wanting, and Jehan’s mouth, chasing after his.

It is only the need for air that makes him stop, but he keeps his hands on Jehan; Jehan who presses his face against Courfeyrac’s neck and breathes him in. It makes him want to hug him until he squeaks. Or kiss him again, and again and again, but they should probably talk a bit first.

Or at least move out of the kitchen.

Courfeyrac draws Jehan under his arm, and turns them back to face the cupboard.

“So, how about something from Montpellier? I think you’d like the architecture.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to liseuse for the beta! All remaining errors are my own.


End file.
